The Next Best Thing

Roy wished he were dreaming of Ishbal. He wanted to feel the sting of blowing sand, the scratch of it in half healed wounds. He wanted to smell the blood, the sickly sweet tang of charred flesh; he wanted to hear the screams…

Anything was better than the scene he was being forced to witness.

He knew he was dreaming, had that slight sense of it, but not enough to decide it was time to wake. His mind, in all of its masochistic, guilt-ridden glory, was well and determined to see this out.

It demanded he examine the tilt to Havoc’s head, the horrific juxtaposition of terror and agony twisting the man’s face. It watched with a clinical interest as an almost impassive Archer pulled on a bit of leather, running Havoc’s apparently precarious balance and toppling him to the floor, chin rubbing along a bit of rug in a way that was sure to leave a mark. Archer noticed, and with a content sort of smile, gripped the back of Havoc’s head and forced his face across the rug a bit more.

Havoc’s smothered whimpers were torture.

When Archer got bored of that game and released Havoc’s head, Havoc tried, desperately, to find some angle that would allow a bit of rug burn free flesh bear the weight of his head, find some way to ignore the smear of blood on the carpet that was tauntingly fresh, unsettlingly bright.

Roy tried, with equal desperation, to wake up. Usually once one realized they were dreaming it was only a short while until they woke, until the spell of dreaming was broken…

Havoc cried out, partially in anger, partially in animal fear as his pants were removed, as Archer stroked a possessive hand across ass cheeks protected only by a thin pair of boxers. His protestations choked to an anguished end as Archer’s hand moved, started to stroke Havoc’s groin in an almost thoughtfully slow sort of way. It was excruciating to watch, Roy didn’t want to imagine what it was like to experience.

In an act of primal betrayal Havoc’s penis began to respond to the almost casual attention. Havoc’s face was a display of utmost self-loathing as Archer chuckled lightly and then removed that last bit of clothing, sliding the boxers down Havoc’s bound legs, letting them rest against the pants bunched inelegantly around Havoc’s ankles.

It was enough. He had seen enough. Holy shit he had seen enough…

Apparently not, as he failed to wake up in time to miss Archer slipping his own pants open and stroking himself once or twice before thrusting with unrestrained force into Havoc’s unprepared ass. He never wanted to hear such an animal howl of pain again. It was the sound of a mind, of a man, breaking.

The scene before him kept him enthralled; every smack of flesh against unwilling flesh, every whimper, every pant added to his horrified fascination. Archer came with one particularly forceful thrust and an odd sort of hissing sigh. After a moment he turned towards Roy with a friendly smile.

“You want to have a go?”

Roy snapped awake, rolled out of bed and staggered his way to the bathroom, where he proceeded to vomit. With vigor. Bile harsh on his tongue, burning the back of his nose, Roy set off to settle his stomach with alcohol. Strong alcohol. Maybe with some whiskey he could burn the images out of his mind just as easily as he could burn through the acid in his throat. Either way, it was not likely that he was heading back to bed that evening.

Bottle in hand, not even bothering with something as mundane as a cup, Roy hunched onto the couch and glared balefully at the phone. Maybe he should call Havoc, check up on the man…

“Hell.” Havoc blinked away sleep, put the rifle back down, and answered the phone. And blinked. “Mustang? It’s like…” Havoc peered at the clock for confirmation. “Hell, sir, it is 3 in the morning…I see. Erm…Alright. I suppose…yeah, just let me get dressed…you want to come over here? You sure? I could walk…ok, ok, no need to get snarky sir. Yessir.”

Havoc hung up the phone, more than a little bemused. “What the hell’s gotten into him?”